


A Very Cajun Christmas

by LT_Aldo_Raine



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Domestic, Happy Ending, Holidays, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 05:08:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19434577
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LT_Aldo_Raine/pseuds/LT_Aldo_Raine
Summary: a series of snapshot scenes into the holiday festivities of Gene and BabeOR: Babe woke Gene with kisses. Sweet, gentle, endless kisses. Pressed to the exposed skin at the curve of his bicep, the dip between his shoulder blades, the top of an ear peaking out behind fussed hair. The kisses were generous. They asked nothing, gave everything—that was the spirit of Christmas, after all.





	A Very Cajun Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> I started this last June with the intention of posting it at Christmas, so the fact that its now being published a year later should tell you a lot about my life in general. Whatever. Christmas in July and all that...! 
> 
> Can be read as a continuance of ["Southern Living"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12571224).

**The Wool Sweater**

Gene was wearing a sweater.

Outside, the sun was shining brightly. There wasn't the slightest hint of snow, or even frost, on the ground. No breeze in the air. The temperature was still well above freezing.

But Gene was wearing a sweater, and it was the most delightful thing Babe had seen this holiday season.

“Look at ya.” He grinned, strutting over to where Gene stood by the kitchen window, a morning mug of chicory coffee wrapped in his pale hands. Babe stroked a finger down the front of Gene's wool sweater. It was a deep chestnut color, the wool braided in an intricate pattern, and the cozy garment fit Gene snugly across his chest and shoulders. Babe thought the color complimented Gene's skin beautifully. He told the other man as much, then added, “Such a shame, really.”

Gene's brow quirked. “What is?” He took a sip of coffee and regarded the redhead dubiously.

A smirk tilted Babe's mouth just so. “Shame that ya won't be able ta wear it much long’a.”

Gene snorted. “Yeah, and why s’at...?”

Babe skimmed his fingers underneath the hem of Gene's sweater, fingertips dancing across the warm skin of his paramour's abdomen, and drew Gene in for a kiss, the shorter man's coffee mug trapped between their bodies.

The Cajun made a soft, affirming sound into the kiss.

Somehow, the coffee mug made it to the kitchen table. Shortly thereafter, Gene's wool sweater tumbled onto the kitchen floor. His back pressed against the cold kitchen window, Gene shivered. He clutched Babe's hips desperately as the other man mounted a full tactical assault on the Cajun’s mouth.

“Don't worry, Gene,” Babe breathed into his mouth. “I'm gonna keep ya real warm. Promise.”

**Hot Cocoa**

He was on the porch, rocking away in one of the twin chairs Gene had built himself, his gaze lost on the bayou that ran through the tall grass and woods in front of their modest home. The cool December air tickled his skin. Babe wished, foolishly, that it was just a little colder out. That a mere dusting of snow would settle over the earth and remind him of home. Babe always missed Philly a little bit more this time of year.

But then, Gene emerged from the house, and Babe remembered that home no longer meant snowball fights with his younger cousins, stomping around in thick, winter boots, and wearing handmade scarves from his ma. No more Christmas shows at City Hall in downtown Philly, or lighting of the tree in the Met Plaza. Now, home meant sunny December days and children's stories about Papa Noel and _Gene—_ and Gene would always be more than enough for Babe.

The man in question shot Babe a little grin and shuffled two mugs of hot cocoa in his hands. He handed one to Babe with the sweetest hint of a smile. “There's a little somethin' extra in there, just fo' you.”

The redhead snickered at the sight of Gene's mug. There was a small mountain of marshmallows in the Cajun's cup. With a quiet, “Thanks,” he took a sip out of his own mug. The familiar taste of chocolate melted on his tongue briefly but was chased away by a sharper flavor. “What is that...is that whiskey?”

“Bourbon,” Gene corrected, a devilish twinkle in his eye.

Babe felt the laugh bubble forward, tumbling out of his mouth of its own volition. Suddenly, he found himself overwhelmingly charmed by the fate of his own life. This—a quaint shack hidden away in the middle of a swamp with only a tender, little Cajun for company; mosquitoes and cicadas and all manner of locusts from the seventh circle of hell biting at his ankles; working construction for an old man named Beauregard who owned precisely one pair of coveralls; spending the holidays among folks who greeted him not with “Merry Christmas,” but with “Joyeux Noël”—this was a life diametrically opposed to everything he'd ever known. It was a life he never could have _known_ to want.

Beside him, Gene hummed happily over his cup of cocoa, gaze skipping across the bayou to where a heron perched in the shallows.

“Gene?”

“Mhmm?”

“Thanks for the hot chocolate.”

“Mhmm.”

**Here Comes the Mail**

Even though it was just the two of them in their little shack in the swamp, mail arrived every day to remind Babe that he and Gene were not alone. That time of year, beyond the usual letters from Bill and Fran that flooded their mailbox regularly, the couple also received Christmas cards from their other Easy Co. brothers like Spina, Toye, and Liebgott. There was also the occasional gift—one from Babe's parents, another from his siblings, a tin of cookies from Fran. With each visit to the post office, Babe and Gene felt a little lighter, a little happier, to know that all around the world they had friends and family who supported and loved them—and wasn’t that what the holiday season was all about?

**Christmas Kisses**

Babe was certain that it was their neighbor Ellie May that had done it. Well, calling her a neighbor was a bit of a stretch. The war widow—a sweet young woman with too big eyes and a penchant for walking barefoot and a dog named Duke—lived two miles through the woods, three miles away if you followed along the bayou. Surely, it had been her. Of this, Babe was certain; he just didn’t know how she’d done it.

He thought that perhaps she had let herself in the day before while he and Gene had been at work. But he didn't recall seeing them yesterday evening. Maybe, then, she had snuck in during the dark of night. Babe eyed the small, one-inch nail protruding slightly from the top of the door frame, petulantly. No, he and Gene would've heard the hammering, thunderous on a quiet night. So, then, how?

“What's got you so preoccupied this mornin'?” The question was asked with a brush of lips against his ear, the slide of a shoulder and chest against his back, as Gene shuffled behind him to the stove, no doubt eager to put on the day's first pot of coffee.

Babe pointed up at the frame of the kitchen door by way of response. “Look what she's done.”

Gene frowned. “She who?” Then, he spotted the offending object—the mistletoe hanging above Babe's head. A light pink sprinkled the tops of Gene's cheeks and ears. “Oh, uh. No, I...I did that.”

Babe felt his jaw drop. _“Gene.”_

“What?” The Cajun's shoulders hunched defensively, and he set about starting the coffee, the flush of red spreading across his skin. “S'Christmas...you're supposed to.”

“Its on _every_ entry way in the house. Don't you think that's a bit much?” That much mistletoe. Honestly. As if he needed an excuse to kiss Gene.

The shorter man merely shrugged. Babe watched, amazed and in love, as Gene began to scramble a few eggs for breakfast. The egg and milk mixture didn't even make it to the skillet before Babe demanded Gene's attention once more. “As you'll notice-” He pointed once more to the Christmas plant dangling above his head. “-I'm in a bit of a situation here, and I was wonderin' if ya could help me out.”

Gene fought a grin.

He complied with Babe's wishes, moving to stand before the redhead, close enough that Babe could feel the shorter man's breath, but careful not to let their bodies touch. His dark eyes danced over Babe's skin, and swear to God, just the weight of Gene's gaze left goosebumps on the redhead's pale flesh. Babe shuddered a breath at the sensation, prompting Gene to step forward, their bodies now flushed together. Gene's fingers found each of his wrists, and his fingertips grazed upwards, tantalizingly slow, tracing the web of freckles that littered Babe's fair skin.

When his hands met shoulders, then neck, Gene cupped Babe's face gently. He cradled the redhead's cheeks, thumbs stroking absently. One thumb found the corner of Babe's mouth. The other tugged Babe's bottom lip lower until Babe's lips parted—another stuttered breath.

“Gene,” whispered Babe, eyes falling shut, hands fisted at his sides. Jesus, he wished he could savor this moment forever. To forever remember the feeling of Gene's body pressed carefully into his own, the warmth that radiated from the shorter man. To forever recall the scent of honeysuckle and sawdust that clung to the skin of his favorite Cajun. To forever feel dizzy with happiness and love from the mere _touch_ of this man. To forever be able to share such precious moments, time frozen as he and his lover took pleasure in one another, no need to rush, nothing more important than the two of the them, there, together. “Gene, please.”

And when their lips finally met, Babe could not breathe.

Gene kept a hand on Babe's jaw, his lips nipping, his teeth biting softly, at the redhead's mouth, while his other hand wormed around Babe's torso to hold him close and safe. “Ma moitié,” he sighed into Babe. “Joyeux Noël, ma moitié.”

Babe groaned, hands fisting in Gene's shirt. “Gah, ya know I fuckin' love it when ya speak French.”

Gene smirked against his mouth. “That's the point, Edward.”

They remained in their embrace, exchanging slow and lazy and sensual morning kisses, until the room began to smell of coffee, and Gene was called away to the stove. Babe slumped against the door frame, high on Gene's affection, and glanced at the mistletoe hanging above.

“Every doorway in the house...Gene, how could I have eva doubted ya?”

**Christmas Crooning**

He was standing at the stove, his back to Babe, a dish towel slung over one shoulder and a spatula in his hand. Babe couldn't see what he was cooking, but the kitchen smelled divine, several pleasant aromas tickling his nose all at once.

However, it wasn't the smell that had drawn Babe downstairs; rather, it was the sound.

“ _Through the years we all will be together, if the fates allow...”_ Gene swayed his hips just so as he sang, shoulders careening to and fro. “ _So hang a shining star upon the highest bough, and have yourself a merry little Christmas now_ …”

The Cajun hummed a little as his voice trailed off. He stirred the contents of the bubbling pot, added a dash of what Babe thought was cayenne pepper, and resumed his crooning, “ _Here we are as in olden days, happy golden days of yore, faithful friends who are dear to us, gather near to us once more—"_

Although Babe didn’t understand all the fuss over _Meet Me in St. Louis,_ Gene adored the festive film. Babe suspected that the Cajun had a little crush on Judy Garland, and as Gene sang the film’s most popular tune, Babe couldn’t fight the grin that split his face. Approaching his love, the redhead wrapped his arms around the shorter man to kiss his cheek and hum along, though he wasn’t entirely sure of the tune.

 _“...and have yourself a merry little Christmas now_.”

**A Cajun Night Before Christmas**

Christmas on the bayou was nothing like mass at St. Joseph’s.

Whereas Babe was used to a traditional Christmas feast of roast goose, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, and roast chestnuts shared around his family’s dining room table and followed up with pound cake and cream—and a bucket load of sweets and candies from Shane Confectionery in Old City—, Christmas dinner in the swamp had a different menu entirely.

A long, skinny pinewood table sat outside under a web of stars. Stacked along its top sat a couple of fat baked hams, red beans and rice, candied yams, and even a pot of chicken gumbo beside which sat a jar of hot sauce. On the end, nestle among trays of pralines and cookies in the shape of a fleur de lis, there was a giant vat of mulled blackberry wine and a couple bottles of sherry.

“This—” Babe had promptly informed Gene upon their arrival to the swamp fete. “—is not Christmas food.”

“Down here it sho’ is, boy,” grumbled old man Beauregard as he shouldered past the young couple carrying a fifth of whiskey and wearing a well-worn Santa hat, the red faded, the cotton ball on the tip dirtied and frayed. “You best eat up, too, fo’ the ‘squit’as get to it!”

Babe frowned. “Mosquitoes wouldn’t be a problem if we ate inside. Ya know, like civilized people,” he helpfully pointed out, but there was no ire in his voice, no real heat behind his words. The redhead had long ago given up any hopes of making sense of this slow, southern world. He had accepted that things were just different in Louisiana—even the holidays.

With a gentle smile, Gene nudged his lover’s shoulder with his own, gesturing with his chin. “C’ain’t have a bonfire inside, cher.”

All along the bayou there were thick stacks of wood piled several feet high, each one ablaze, illuminating the lovely Christmas village. _Noel Acadian au Village_ , Gene had told him, a little winter wonderland cheerfully tucked away in the swamp. There had been a parade earlier that day, caroling and feasting throughout, and a walk-through village that included everything from the recreation of Jesus in the manger to a version of a Cajun north pole. The festivities were an annual tradition and drew folks from the three closest parishes.

Everyone they knew was in attendance that jolly December evening—their neighbor Ellie May and her pup Duke; their boss, old man Beauregard; the black young couple who lived in the next parish and who, for whatever reason, seemed to quite like spending time with Gene and Babe, the Bienemys—Alphonse, Delphine, and their children, Cécile and the twins Edmée and Étienne; Marcel and Sabine, the husband and wife who ran the free clinic where Gene sometimes volunteered; the old ladies that used to be friends with Gene’s grandmother, Ida and Mellette; Gene’s second cousin Jacques and his dog Otis; Remy, Rex, and Leroy, who worked construction with them; and scattered among their friends, there were dozens of faces that Babe had never seen, men and women, families, that had travelled from St. Landry, Iberville, and Lafayette. Everyone gathered from far and wide to celebrate the Christmas spirit with a little bit of fire, a lotta bit of food, and even more love.

It wasn’t Christmas in Philly, but Babe supposed—with the hint of slightly begrudged grin—that it would do.

“C’mon,” Gene beckoned him toward the revelries. “Let’s eat.”

After dinner—after food and fireworks and Christmas carols and one too many glasses of sherry—Babe and Gene were walking—their shoulders clumsily brushing, their hands dancing between their bodies, fingers grasping and pulling away just for the giddy rush—with the Bienemys back to their pick-up truck, the children eager to get home and into bed so that Santa Claus could come and fill their stockings with treats and goodies.

“You gonna stay up late tonight and watch for Santa’s reindeer?” Babe asked the eldest, Cécile, tugging on one of her pigtails and ignoring Gene’s beaming grin, the Cajun’s cheeks flush with sherry and firelight.

The girl’s nose wrinkled in confusion. “Papa Noel don’t have no reindeer, Bay- _abe_. He got al’igators.”

Babe couldn’t stop the loud, barking laugh that escaped him. “What? Whatta ya mean he ain’t got no reindeer? Ya eva heard of Rudolph? He’s a pretty famous guy. Big red nose.”

Cécile shook her head, pigtails swaying. “Nope,” she declared boldly. Over his shoulder, Babe sent an incredulous look to Alphonse and Delphine, but the parents just looked on in smug amusement at the redheaded yankee getting taken to task by their precocious baby girl. “I don’t know no Rudolph, but I do know Tiboy and Pierre.”

Babe blinked once, twice. “Pierre? What…look, I don’t—"

“Mhmm,” the kid nodded proudly, then began to recite the names of St. Nick’s alligators, her excitement building as she went, “Ha, Gaston. Ha, Tiboy. Ha, Pierre an' Alcee. Gee, Ninette! Gee, Suzette! Celeste an' Renee!"

“Yeah,” her little brother Étienne chimed in. “—and he don't come on no sleigh, he got himself a skiff ova the water.”

Babe whipped his head around to pin Gene—who was practically glowing with merriment, though that might’ve simply been the delightful flicker of the bonfire across the Cajun’s skin—with an accusatory stare. “Just what in God’s name are ya teachin’ these kids down here, huh, Gene? Gators? A _skiff_?”

But Gene, in his classic, affable nature, merely shrugged and took a sip of his blackberry wine before he began to recite the closing lines of every Cajuns’ favorite Christmas Eve tale. “So he run out de do' an' he clime to de roof...He ain' no fool, him, to make one more goof. He jump in his skiff an' crack his big whip. De 'gator move down an' don' make no slip. An' I hear him shout loud as a splashin' he go: ‘ _Merry C'rismas to all...’til I see you some mo'_!”

**Christmas Morning**

The morning of December 25th was quiet and still. A brisk chill in the air, Babe woke to the sound of a blue bird chirping amid the Spanish moss that clung to the large live oak tree just beyond their bedroom window. Slivers of early morning sunlight danced between the curtains, casting lines across the hardwood floors and the foot of their bed. Beside him, Gene continued to sleep peacefully.

The Cajun slept on his stomach, one arm curled beneath his pillow, his face turned away from Babe. The redhead studied the shock of messy dark hair on the pillow beside him. His gaze followed the slope of Gene’s neck down the shorter man’s shoulders, dotted with the occasional freckle, over the smooth planes of his back, which disappeared beneath the thin quilt blanket. Without thinking, Babe reached for his love, long, pale fingers tracing over Gene’s skin, skimming, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in their wake.

Where fingers went, lips followed.

Babe woke Gene with kisses. Sweet, gentle, endless kisses. Pressed to the exposed skin at the curve of his bicep, the dip between his shoulder blades, the top of an ear peaking out behind fussed hair. The kisses were generous. They asked nothing, gave everything—that was the spirit of Christmas, after all.

And as Gene woke, his hands reached, greedily yet lovingly, for the man who doled out his affection so early in the morning. Their bodies fitting together instinctively, Gene and Babe welcomed Christmas morning with an exchange of slow, languid kisses, open-mouthed and warm and full of love. Hands grasped at the soft, round flesh of hips and buttocks, fingers teased and pulled at tuffs of hair, lips and tongues and teeth met over and over again. It was all-consuming. For Babe, Gene was everywhere, everywhere, everywhere. He devoured Babe’s senses, was all the redhead could see, could feel, could taste or smell or hear, all soft, breathy gasps and low murmurs of his name on the Cajun’s breathless lips.

Goddamn it all, but Babe loved this man.

“Merry Christmas, Eugene,” Babe spoke, the words etched into Gene’s collarbone as Babe placed wet love bites across the hollow of his lover’s throat. Gene hummed happily. There were things to be done that Christmas morning—breakfast to make, presents to open, parents to call—but for the young couple, there was no rush. They wrung in the holiday morning snug in their bed, wound in one another’s arms, content with the world and very much so in love.

“Joyeux Noël, Edward.”

**Author's Note:**

> Please Google “A Cajun Night Before Christmas.” Having lived in Louisiana, I can confirm that a lotta parents do, indeed, read this to their kids during the holidays.


End file.
